


Marble in Moonlight

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1830s, Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 00:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: Enjolras and Combeferre have a heart to heart in the aftermath of the July Revolution.Written for Logic and Philosophy Week on Tumblr.





	Marble in Moonlight

**August 1830**

“Well damn Lafayette to hell!” Bahorel smacks his fist into the table, apparently scarcely registering the pain it might cause. “I’m sure you agree, Enjolras?”

Combeferre glances over from his seat at the table with Bahorel, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire having left perhaps a half hour ago. Enjolras sits off in the corner rather than at the table with them, claiming a headache and an urgent need to get some work done, though ever since the barricades…well ever since the barricades the lot of them have barely spent time apart, even when in the same room.

It’s odd.

A smile graces Enjolras’ face, but the light in his eyes looks dimmer than usual. Not gone, but not bright, either.

“Quite agreed, yes Bahorel,” Enjolras replies. “In fact I believe I saw a drawing to that effect, recently. Something of Lucifer himself poking Lafayette with what I believe was a pitchfork. It looked rather unpleasant.”

“Far be it from me to wish a lashing with Satan’s pitchfork on anyone,” Prouvaire exclaims. “But I fear Lafayette may deserve it. He’ll rid America of her king but sees fit to saddle us only with a  _different_ one.”

Feuilly raises his glass in silent agreement before knocking back his wine far more enthusiastically than usual, furrowing his brows when some of the red flecks land on his face. Courfeyrac smiles and hands Feuilly his handkerchief to wipe off the offending liquid, taking the opportunity to lean toward Combeferre.

“Something’s wrong with him,” Courfeyrac whispers in Combeferre’s ear. “Enjolras, I mean.”

Combeferre taps Courfeyrac’s shoulder, drawing him closer. “I agree. Granted we’re all angry at the situation, but he doesn’t seem himself. Or reacting like himself, I suppose.”

“I would give Lafayette  _and_  our new king a bruise for making Enjolras have that look, if I could,” Courfeyrac grumbles, flexing his fingers. “You should talk to him.”

Combeferre smiles at his friend’s affectionate rage. “Maybe we both should.”

“You first, I think,” Courfeyrac argues, glancing back over at Enjolras, who sits staring at the same page he was reading ten minutes ago. “You know how he gets, when too many people at once say he’s acting strangely.”

“He pretends even more forcefully that he’s fine, yes, Combeferre murmurs. “All right, I’ll see if I can coax him home. Perhaps give me a few hours, and come by around eight? That way you can step in if I fail.”

Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder and gives him a familiar grin, bandages still wrapped around his knuckles from the fighting. “You won’t. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Combeferre gets up from his chair, watching Feuilly pull away from his in-depth conversation with Prouvaire and Bahorel—who are coming up with colorful names for Lafayette—and nod in Enjolras’ direction, clearly possessing the same worry as Courfeyrac. Combeferre nods in return, giving his Feuilly a quick smile.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks as he approaches.

Enjolras doesn’t move, finally turning the page of his book for the first time in several minutes.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre repeats, a bit louder.

Enjolras jumps in his chair, nearly dropping his book.

Something is  _definitely_  wrong. Enjolras doesn’t have a penchant for jumping in surprise, or for gracelessness generally. Courfeyrac complains about  _that_  all the time, good-naturedly.

“Combeferre,” he answers, giving what looks like a reflexive smile. “I didn’t hear you the first time, I’m sorry.”

“Quite all right.” Combeferre presses Enjolras’ shoulder, noting just how tense the muscles feel. “My apologies for startling you. I was just going to say, would you like to walk with me to my rooms? I have a book there I’ve been meaning to show you, and I feel like we haven’t had any time on our own, since…”

“The barricades.” Enjolras finishes Combeferre’s sentence with a solemnity that sounds familiar, but it’s far, far heavier than normal. “Yes, that’s true…” he gives a small gasp when he shuts his book and moves his arm. He’d been grazed by a bullet on the third day, and the flesh wound is still healing. He doesn’t finish his sentence, his gaze locked somewhere in the distance.

“Let’s go.” Combeferre tugs on Enjolras’ sleeve, drawing him out of his reverie.

Enjolras jolts again. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m…tired today.”

Combeferre leads Enjolras out of the Musain and into the streets, twilight’s shadows casting the streets into sharp relief as they walk. In all the chaos of the fighting and the new government, the city still hasn’t been set to rights. Pieces of broken furniture litter the cobblestones, glass from shattered street lamps glinting in the dying sunlight. National guardsmen linger at nearly every corner, a lingering hush remaining over Paris.

“It’s strange, isn’t?” Enjolras speaks into the quiet when they reach Combeferre’s street. “I’m so used to hearing Paris. But I don’t, tonight. It was so loud those three days and now it’s only…well it’s too quiet, I suppose.”

Combeferre fiddles around the pocket of his bag, searching for his keys. “It is strange. Quite a difference.”

They bid Combeferre’s portress hello as they come inside the building, shedding their coats and cravats against the hot night air that’s plagued Paris all summer. Combeferre opens the window to his sitting room, hoping it might keep things from growing too stuffy.

Enjolras sits down on the settee, glancing over at Combeferre’s shelves, which bow under the weight of too many books, some sitting upright with their spines out, and others stacked without much thought to organization.

“What was the book you wanted to show me?” he asks.

Combeferre starts, having forgotten that lie. “I…uh…” his eyes travel the shelves, searching for a title. “I’ve been reading Lord Byron recently, at Prouvaire’s request.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, skeptical. “You invited me to talk about poetry?”

Combeferre sighs, knowing full well what a frightful liar he is. “No. I was just worried about you. You don’t seem yourself. I knew you might not admit that in front of too many others.”

Enjolras waves his hand, gently pushing the concern away. “I’m fine, Combeferre. There’s no need to worry.”

Combeferre sits down on the settee too, putting one tentative hand over Enjolras’. “You jumped when I said your name in the café,” Combeferre points out. “You didn’t sit with the rest of us. You look pale. Something’s not right, my friend.”

Enjolras looks up, his fingers curling around Combeferre’s.

“We’re all angry and frustrated about the outcome of revolt,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre can tell he’s deflecting. “I’m no different in that respect. That’s all. It’s been a tiring few weeks.”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre grows stern, and his friend’s eyes widen a little. “Please talk to me. It’s just me.”

Enjolras looks at him again, running a hand through his over-long hair, the golden strands caught in the candlelight. He runs a hand over the bandage on his arm, closing his eyes before opening them again and holding tighter to Combeferre’s hand.

“I…I am alive, and so are all of you,” Enjolras whispers. “And we must…we must keep going. A constitutional monarchy isn’t good enough. It’s not what’s best for France and I need to focus…”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre gently interrupts. “Tell me what’s the matter.”

Enjolras reaches for Combeferre’s other hand, an indication of his vulnerability, and Combeferre holds on, his friend’s fingertips cold against the endless summer heat.

“When that bullet grazed my arm…” Enjolras’ voice floats into the quiet like a soft and sudden melody. “It struck another man behind me full in the chest. I heard him shout in pain. And in that moment I remembered you being behind me, and I…well for a minute I thought it was you shouting. That it was you who was struck in the chest. That it was you who…who might die.”

“Enjolras…” Combeferre tries, the strange, withdrawn mood making more sense now.

Enjolras meets his eyes, a silent plea to continue, and Combeferre relents, letting him go on.  

“It’s not only that I…I have dreams. Nightmares of blood. I hear a loud noise and it reminds me of the gunfire and the shouting.” Enjolras blinks, tears gathering on his fair lashes, and he pulls one hand out of Combeferre’s to wipe his eyes. “And I cannot…I cannot allow this to keep happening. I am not sleeping, which prevents me from thinking well, and if I cannot think well I cannot do the work that is so sorely needed. Perhaps the change in government will satisfy some, but it is not nearly enough and we cannot grow complacent and I…”

Combeferre takes Enjolras’ other hand back, leaning forward so their foreheads touch. “My friend. It has been mere weeks since Paris herself shook beneath our feet. It’s all right for you to give yourself some time to recover from it all. We’d been prepared for a street-fight, but it was the first time any of us other than Bahorel had actually been in one like that.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I accepted a long time ago that violence was inevitable to gain what we wish for, and I accepted it might mean losing my life, which I of course would never throw away carelessly. I should be able to handle this without such…disturbances.”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre feels tears prick his own eyes, and he pulls his friend closer, wrapping his arms around tight. Enjolras sucks in a breath, resting his head on Combeferre’s shoulder and returning the gesture. “Enjolras,” Combeferre repeats. “I’m certain you  _will_  handle it. You are practically overflowing with resilience. But that doesn’t mean you won’t carry some of those bad memories with you. It doesn’t mean that you can’t give yourself moments to just…let yourself feel what you need to.”

Enjolras’ fingers press into Combeferre’s shirt. “When I thought the bullet struck you I…I nearly lost my breath, Combeferre. I could not be level-headed, in that moment.”

Combeferre pulls back, thumbing away some of the tears Enjolras let fall, the latter blushing in embarrassment.

“It wasn’t me,” Combeferre whispers. “I’m here. You’re here. And we’ll keep working. You’re not capable of giving up, Enjolras. Nightmares, fear, grief…those things don’t take away from your courage and determination. They just mean you’re human no matter how otherworldly your  _canne de combat_.”

Enjolras gives him a shaky smile, some of the light flooding back into his eyes. “For a glorious few hours, I felt like France’s wounds might heal, that we were seeing the beginnings of another republic. And then they ripped the bandage off while still saying they weren’t.” Enjolras’ smile grows, amusement glinting in the familiar blue irises. “I suppose I share Prouvaire’s sentiment that Lafayette ought to be prodded by Satan’s pitchfork.”

Combeferre laughs, the sound echoing around the sitting room with a merriment he wouldn’t have suspected a few minutes ago.

Enjolras smiles wider, confusion passing across his face. “What’s  _so_  funny?”

Combeferre wipes his eyes, feeling a grin slip onto his face. “When you said that I just imagined  _you_  prodding him with the pitchfork.”

Enjolras quirks his eyebrows again with a chuckle, some color back in his cheeks.

“Courfeyrac’s coming by in an hour or two,” Combeferre admits. “He wanted to check on you as well. But how about you sleep until then, hmm? I think you could use some rest.”

Enjolras looks hesitant, likely afraid that more sleep might bring more nightmares. “I don’t want to bother you.”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows this time, pushing his spectacles up his nose. Enjolras gives in, stretching out across the settee and resting his head in Combeferre’s lap, closing his eyes as Combeferre smooths the hair back from his face. Soon enough Enjolras’ breathing eases and he’s lost to sleep. Knowing his friend to be a deep sleeper when not haunted by nightmares, Combeferre eases out from beneath him, retrieving a blanket from his bedchamber and placing it over Enjolras, who gets cold easily even in summer. He takes the book he’d been reading this morning from his sitting room table, pulling his arm chair even closer to the settee so he might keep an eye on the sleeping Enjolras. He’s only read a few pages when he hears Enjolras shift in his sleep, seeing his face scrunched against what must be an oncoming nightmare. Combeferre reaches over, taking Enjolras’ hand and running a gentle thumb across his palm.

Enjolras’ eyes crack open as he releases a breath, releasing some of the tension.

“Go back to sleep,” Combeferre says. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

Enjolras’ eyes fall closed, but he keeps hold of Combeferre’s hand. They’ve been friends for a long while, but Combeferre still feels touched; Enjolras doesn’t trust just anyone with his vulnerability.

Combeferre leaves his book for a few minutes, running his thumb back and forth across Enjolras’ palm again, easing him into sleep.

_What fine marble!_  He hears Grantaire say, feeling annoyed at the memory even if he knows Grantaire hadn’t meant anything by it.

Enjolras is resilient. He’s determined. He’s frightening, when he wishes it.

But he  _isn’t_  marble.

Far from it.

Combeferre knows that best of all.

Enjolras’ every heartbeat pounds with love for the country around him. For their friends. For the hope of a better world.

That’s why the nightmares haunt him, Combeferre supposes. Nightmares full of fear that he hasn’t done enough. Combeferre’s squeezes Enjolras’ hand again, moonlight flooding through the window and casting their intertwined fingers in an eerie white glow.

_Even the night doesn’t leave us without light,_  Enjolras said one night during the barricades a few weeks ago.  _Even if the moon is but a crescent, we still have the stars, however faint they might be sometimes._

Combeferre smiles.

Whatever happens, whatever they might face, he knows they’ll share it together.

He can’t really imagine anything else.


End file.
